What WAS She Thinking?
by elag
Summary: When Lydia Bennet ran away from Brighton, she left all her friends - put herself in the power of Mr Wickham. What on earth was she thinking? A short piece attempting to answer that question. One-shot. Rated M for grooming and underage sex.


What a lark! It was just like the most exciting novels – all adventure and dashing gentlemen and romance – and it was happening to _her_ , the youngest of them all! How much fun she would have telling Kitty all about it, and Mama would be absolutely delighted to have her darling Lydia come home a married woman! She didn't care a fig that it was an uncomfortable carriage, nor that she was a little hungry for having missed her supper. No, it was all worth it to be travelling to Scotland with her dear Wickham.

Just look at him: even in his everyday clothes, he was quite the handsome gentleman. She particularly liked the way that lock of hair fell just so across his brow. Made him look windswept and devil-may-care, like a proper hero. She did wish he was still in his red coat, but he had said something about wearing blue to match her eyes, and she didn't have the heart to scold him. He really was so very much in love with her, she would bear the days he wore blue knowing he'd be back in red soon enough.

This seat was dashed uncomfortable, though. It was a daunting prospect to travel all the way to Scotland in such an inferior conveyance. She didn't really know how far Scotland was, but it was sure to take ever so long to get there. She shifted on her bench several times in an unsuccessful attempt to find a more comfortable spot before giving up, and launching herself across to share her beloved's side of the carriage. The seat was no softer, but at least she could distract herself with some cuddling.

She must have taken Wickham by surprise, though, for at first he started quite violently, before relaxing and taking her gently in his arms. She thought he would bestow a loving kiss, but instead, he held her away from him a little, saying in slightly puzzled tones, "Tell me why you are here, Miss Lydia."

Discerning he meant something more than "Why are you here on my side of the carriage", Lydia felt her lower lip tremble at the thought he might not want her company. But that was _silly_. She would not indulge in such fancies. She was secure in the love of the very best of all the officers and had nothing to worry about. Perhaps it was simply that he needed further reassurance to be as certain of her love as she was of his.

"I am here, you silly, because I love you so very much that nothing can ever part us. You have told me so often how much you love me. It is only fair that you know your love is returned a thousandfold. I adore you with all my heart, and can think of nothing in this world I would rather be doing than eloping with you so we can be together for ever and ever more."

An arrow of purest love pierced her heart when she saw the gratitude and relief with which Wickham received her words: he closed his eyes for a long moment, letting out a deep sigh and shaking his head as if to deny he was worthy of such gentle sentiments. When he finally recovered his composure, a small, girlish laugh escaped him before he pulled her back to snuggle close to him, and said, "Well, then, if we are to be married, we might as well behave as man and wife, don't you think?" What followed was the most delightful kiss she had ever experienced, accompanied by the sort of frank groping of her breasts that earlier "accidental" brushes of the back of his hand had only hinted at.

"Oh, my darling Wicky," she breathed.

"Not Wicky!" he reprimanded sternly. "You may call me Wickham, or even George, but never Wicky."

Well, that was a blow. She had called him Wicky in her mind for weeks now, and it would take considerable effort to change the habit this late in the piece. Still, it could not matter so _very_ much: a love as strong as theirs would make its own rules, and when spoken in her loving voice, he would soon realise how the name suited him. But for now she would try to please him in this as in all else. Especially if he would keep on kissing her like that.

"Lieutenant Wickham," she said, attempting and failing to infuse her voice with gravitas, "I will be pleased to address you formally if you so wish, sir. You may call me Miss Lydia, or Lyddikins on special occasions."

"I suggest you stop talking, madam," was his reply. He played her game of formality jolly well, by pretending to be irritated, and pulled her in briskly for another kiss. This time, he pushed his tongue inside her mouth, which was both disconcerting and a little unpleasant. His tongue was fleshy and damp, and carried the tang of his sour breath, but clearly this was a part of kissing she just had to get used to. She suppposed that once the initial surprise was past, she would come to like it. But for now, it was no fun at all, and eventually she turned her head away to break the kiss.

In order to encourage him, she took his hand and placed it on her breast – she had certainly enjoyed his previous attentions to _that_ part of her anatomy. Wickham was, it turned out, easily distracted from her withdrawal from his kiss by such a plump offering, and set to work freeing her left breast from its bindings until he managed to pull it somewhat awkwardly over the top of her dress. He had not loosened her stays: the rearrangement of her garb had been limited to the minimum necessary to expose her breast and pull it up and out. Again, this seemed a little less romantic than she had anticipated, but once Wickham bent to apply his lips to her nipple, she forgave him his earlier lack of care with her person. When he lightly nipped her, Lydia let out a small cry of delight. Such feelings were beyond anything she might have imagined, and she happily encouraged her beloved to take his fill.

It did not seem to sate him, however. Instead, his appetite seemed to grow, and he shifted in his seat to pull her into his lap. This was a pleasant adjustment for Lydia, as it enabled her to lean backwards, presenting her exposed breast more comfortably for his attentions, and he was certainly better to sit on than that horrible carriage seat! She started a little when one of his hands pushed under her skirts and parted her thighs. This was an intimacy she had never imagined occurring before her marriage vows were spoken, and she clamped her legs back together and pulled back from her beloved with a look of uncertainty on her face.

Wickham, she saw, bore a frown of concentration, his gaze fixed on the bouncing breast that had been pulled from his lips only moments before. It was some time before he raised his eyes to meet hers, and her uncertainty rose when as she saw him roll those eyes in frustration before assuming a more becoming smile.

"Wicky?" she asked, anxious for his reassurances that all was well, and in her anxiety forgetting his command for a more formal address.

"Wickham," he growled in response, then shook himself a little, and raised his wayward hand to gently cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her face in a most distracting manner. "Oh, my dear," he said on a sigh, "did we not just agree that we are as good as married already? I only want to show you the joys of the marriage bed. My feelings are too impatient to survive the whole long trip to Scotland, alone in a carriage with you, without allowing our love free rein. You are such a temptation, and if we are now to marry, there is no longer any reason to resist temptation. Why should we worry about a few silly rules when we have already escaped stuffy propriety by running away together? Our love is so very strong, it must overcome all obstacles. Once our friends and family see us together, they will forgive all, since they will see how deeply we affect each other. My dear Lydia, what reason can there be for prudishness between us?"

This fair melted her heart all over again, and Lydia relaxed into his arms. "I _do_ love you, Wickham. I would not be here if I did not. I am just a little nervous. You will have to be patient with me." Then the thought of him rolling his eyes struck her: "Are you very angry with me? I am sorry I stopped you just now."

To her great relief, Wickham laughed fondly at her, saying, "Oh, you poor thing. Did you think I was angry with you? Not at all. I was a little angry at myself for failing to keep myself under better regulation, for I know I should be patient enough to wait until we are wed. But I cannot be patient. I must feel your lovely young body or I will die for wanting you. It would be cruel to make me wait, for no one will ever know but us: It will be our delightful secret. And truly, Miss Lydia Bennet, it is an agony for me to have you so close and not be kissing you. _Please_ tell me I may teach you more of the pleasure we can give each other."

His look by the end of this speech was so affectionate, his hand on her cheek so gentle, and her naked breast so desirous of a resumption of his attention, that she _knew_ their love transcended mere rules of society. Overcome by the strong feelings he evoked in her, she could manage no more than to whisper, "You may."

Wickham was pleased, that was clear. His look would have seemed wolfish if she did not know it to be masking the deepest devotion a man could have for a woman.

A woman! La! She was not quite sixteen years old, and already woman enough to inspire such adoration in such a man! The last thing she had done before leaving her bedroom at Longbourn was to arrange her childhood dollies neatly on her bed. To think she would come home again married to the handsome Lieutenant Wickham. But, she supposed, it would not really be coming home, since her home now was with Wickham. She wondered briefly where that would be, but had her musings firmly brought back to the present by a lurch as the carriage pulled in to stop at an inn. With flustered urgency, she solicited Wickham's help in putting her attire back into order. She could hardly grudge him a last loving suckle on her breast before it was once again tucked away behind her gown, and she was barely presentable before the door was opened by a coachman eager for his own supper and out of patience with two passengers who were taking their own good time in alighting.

So focussed had she been on restoring her dress to its proper place that Lydia had given no thought to her hair. Thus it was a thoroughly tousled young lady that stepped down from the carriage, taking the coachman's hand with a regal mien that contrasted sharply with her swollen lips and disordered locks, causing that man to snort quietly in derision. She shot him a disapproving look: she had no idea what his distemper related to, but its timing was so unfortunate as to give the impression he had snorted at _her_. That simply would not do. She expected better of her future servants. She missed the look of amusement that Mr Wickham exchanged with the coachman before he followed her into the inn.

Once inside, she was reminded how much her presence affected her husband – well, _nearly_ her husband, and she might as well get used to _thinking_ of him as such – when he admitted that in admiring her figure as she alighted from the carriage, he had forgotten to bring his purse with him. She was delighted by the knowledge that she could drive him to distraction by her very presence, and amused that he would be dependent on her to pay for their meal.

Wickham urged economy – that they dine in the common room and not stop for the night but press on toward London as soon as they had eaten – and offered to go out and retrieve his purse, though it _was_ so very late and time was of the essence when engaging in elopement, after all. Lydia waved away his gallantry, and produced her own small supply of coin from her reticule. "I have enough for our dinner, and a little left over, my love. What's mine is yours, after all." She giggled happily at her fortune – in every sense – being in the hands of the very best of men, then tucked in to the hearty stew that had been placed in front of her by a servant. She was, after all, _very_ hungry.

Wickham ordered ale for himself, and sherry for her: he would not have his wife drinking ale in an alehouse, he asserted, proudly. He would have nothing but the best for her. The sherry was strong and sweet, and Lydia liked it tremendously. No sooner had she emptied her glass than Wickham ordered them another round, pointing out that being a little merry would help them get some sleep in the carriage.

Thankful for his consideration of her comfort, for how else could she hope to sleep on those lumpy seats, and enjoying the compliment of being allowed a drink that at Longbourn was only served to adults, Lydia happily drank her third and fourth glasses before it was time to return to the carriage and go on their way. If she left the inn laughing and leaning heavily on her companion's arm, it was nothing to her! Let the tut-tutting busybodies who turned their noses up as she passed think what they liked: _she_ knew that all was well. She was a married lady (as far as any of them knew) who was under the protection of an officer and a gentleman. They were just jealous of her good fortune at having such a handsome man on her arm.

They settled back into the carriage and dear Wicky rapped his cane sharply on the roof, setting the carriage in motion. He rearranged the available blankets, together with his coat and her pelisse, on the rear seat, then indicated she should join him on this much more comfortable perch. Lydia was delighted to do so, immediately cuddling up to him and stroking his manly chest provocatively. "We really must buy a better carriage once we are married," she said, a little petulantly. "This one is very uncomfortable, and rather drab."

"Did you think this my carriage?" Wickham was all amazement. "I would certainly never own such a shabby conveyance. No, my dear, this is but a hired vehicle. I'm afraid there was nothing better to be had at short notice." Not wanting to discuss the topic of carriages any further, he adopted a sultry look, and pulled her once more into his lap.

"Why, my dear Miss Bennet," he drawled, "are you ready to find out what happens in the marriage bed?"

"Indeed I am, Mr Wickham," she replied in mock solemnity, and rewarded him with a kiss. It was interesting to note that the flavour of his kisses had changed. They now carried an aftertaste of ale, and she supposed her own now had the sweet tang of sherry.

This reflection prompted another giggle, which was brought to a sudden halt when Wickham's hand quickly resumed its earlier exploration under her skirt. This time, she managed not to freeze in shock for more than a moment, remembering his tender words before they stopped for dinner and forcing herself to relax under his ministrations. It was so very strange, though, to feel a hand groping its way above her knees and rather clumsily pushing her thighs apart. She could forgive his clumsiness – after all, it was a little difficult to engage in such activities whilst rattling along in a carriage – but she _did_ wish his hand was not so _cold_! Well, at least if he kept it where he had put it, she would warm it up soon enough!

Deciding that he should not be the only one to explore, she began to unbutton his vest, but her hand was impatiently slapped away by her lover. "We do not have time to disrobe, my dear," he admonished her. "What if the carriage stopped and I needed to step out? Just let me lift your skirts and that is all we need." That was disappointing, to be sure. She had spent many evenings imagining the pleasure of touching Mr Wickham's body, but it seemed that was one pleasure she would need to be deferred to another occasion. (It did not occur to her that his capacity to quickly alight from the carriage would be equally compromised by the activities he was about to embark upon, for she really had only the vaguest notion what those activities might be.) Her dear Wicky was clearly so much lost in ardour that he was too impatient to await her answer, since his actions followed immediately upon his words: her skirts were hitched up to her waist, baring her lower half to his heated gaze, and his hand travelled further up her thighs to rest where a little curly hair had begun to grow.

La! What an adventure! She would soon know more than any of her sisters about what occurred between a man and a woman in the marriage bed … or at least in an elopement carriage. A little snort of amusement at the thought of how shocked her sister Mary would be by consummation of vows that had not yet been formalised, and in a carriage on a public road at that, escaped her. Not that she would ever speak to Mary of such a thing. She would tell all to Kitty, though. Kitty would be consumed by jealousy. It would be such a lark to tease her.

Her thoughts were brought back to the present when Wickham abruptly removed her from his lap and began to unbutton the fall on his breeches. She watched in fascination as a fleshy protuberance emerged: she had seen the rise and fall of the bumps gentlemen concealed in their pants, and of course had seen stallions and bulls display their attributes from time to time. But having grown up in a family of girls, she had never had the opportunity to observe the particular character of a man's … thingy … before. It was smaller than she had expected, but still disconcertingly large, given what she understood its purpose to be. She had little chance to examine it, however, since no sooner was it freed from the confines of his clothes than Wickham returned his attention to her.

His focus now on the business at hand, Wickham had less care for conversation. With a minimum of words, he indicated Lydia should stand, pull her skirts up again, and climb into his lap facing him with one leg on either side. She did as instructed, and was soon straddling him. She half expected to be immediately impaled on that part of him he had released for the purpose, but found it to be more pliant than she anticipated: it bent beneath her, with its side, rather than its tip, pressing against her entrance. Wickham adjusted her position, and once more pulled her neck line down to expose a breast. Seated as she was, her breast pressed against his face, and Wickham began to lick it, before giving it a sharp nip. Lydia was startled, and rose up onto her knees. Wickham held her by her waist and pulled her back down to his lap, where this time, his appendage did its task and pushed head-first into her.

It hurt- a sharp, stabbing pain – and she gasped in shock, but her Wicky was determinedly pounding his thingy into her, his hands still guiding her movements in a regular rise and fall, and the pain was soon forgotten in a rising tide of sensation. Truly, it was a revelation. So _this_ was what all the fuss was about! She felt a tightness within her that started where their bodies were joined, and tingled its way up and out through her whole being. Before she could even begin to get used to such a feeling, her dear Wicky scrunched his face up in a most surprising way and gave an indecorous grunt, before ceasing his motions and falling back against the seat. She felt his thingy soften and slip out of her, followed by a small rush of liquid. For a moment she worried that she might have wet herself, but then recalled the earlier pain and wondered whether or not the dampness she felt was blood. Her view obscured by the bundled skirts she held above her waist, she put a hand down to discover a strange liquid – a pink and sticky mess that resembled nothing she had ever seen before.

Wickham offered no explanation – he was clearly exhausted by his efforts to please her – and she retrieved her own handkerchief to clean herself before resuming her earlier position at his side. Wickham absently rebuttoned himself and appeared ready to fall asleep, but Lydia had a thousand questions. As she restored her bust to some semblance of propriety, she began her inquisition:

"Are we man and wife now?"

"No. You have had a little taste: that is all."

"Does it always hurt?"

At this Wickham looked shocked. "No one has ever told me it hurt before. Did you not enjoy it?"

"Oh, yes, I think so. But it did hurt at first. I thought I might have bled a little, but it turned out to be something else."

"Let me see." He examined her handkerchief and considered the pink tinge to his emissions. "Oh, it is just because you were a _virgin_. That is all. That will not happen again."

"Am I not a virgin, now, then?"

This drew a laugh. "A virgin is someone who has not lain with another as a man and wife do. So no, you are not a virgin now. You gave your virginity to me."

Lydia puzzled her way through that news. She had thought to come to her marriage a virgin, and had not understood that what they did in the carriage would change that. But it was water … or blood … under the bridge. It hardly mattered, since the man who took her virginity would soon enough be her husband."

"Was it very painful for _you_?" she asked.

"Painful! No. Why ever would you think so?"

"You looked like you were in pain at the end."

"You silly girl. That is what a man looks like when he takes his pleasure."

"Oh." Then after a short silence, "It only hurt at first. After that it was quite nice. Could we do it again, do you think?"

"A man needs to rest after such an endeavour. Now do be a good girl and shut up."

Lydia huffed. He really needed to work on his sweet talk, but the poor dear was clearly exhausted. She leaned against him and closed her eyes. Soon she was snoring lightly and dreaming of the gallant Wickham who inhabited her imagination.

The next morning, Lydia woke to find herself laid across the second seat, while Mr Wickham slept on the seat that had been the scene of their amorous activities the evening before. Her head hurt, which she put down to the uncomfortable bedding, although four glasses of sherry might have had something to do with it. Her back was sore, her left breast was a little tender, that part of her that Wickham had transgressed felt abraded, and her hair was a terrible mess. She sat up and set about putting herself to rights as much as could be done within the confines of a moving carriage.

She had just finished combing and re-pinning her hair when her beloved stirred. Thankful that she was presentable, she gave him a bright smile and a hearty good morning. It was a testament to how deeply he had been asleep that he only managed a groan in response. He pulled himself upright and ran his fingers carelessly through his hair. How unfair that he could restore his appearance with so little effort, when she had just laboured for near half an hour to achieve the same. Still, his pony tail was a little disordered, and she offered to retie his ribbon for him – an offer which was grudgingly accepted.

"You will have to get used to these little attentions, my love," she said. "When we are married it will be my job to help you look your best. When do you think we will reach Scotland?"

"Ah. About that," he said, throwing her a winning smile, "we will need to stop in London for a few days on the way. A chap owes me some money, and I need to collect it before we can travel on. You won't mind, will you?"

"I suppose not, though it is a terrible shame. I do so like the idea of rushing straight to the border, just like in a novel. How long must we wait, do you think?"

"That depends whether the man is in town or not. If he is away, I will have to wait for him to return, but if he is in town, I should be able to get my winnings from him within a week."

"A week! That seems a terribly long time to wait. Can we not get the money when we come back after we are married?"

"That would never do, my dear. After all, without a bit of ready cash, how will you buy your wedding clothes? You can hardly call on your father's credit while you are eloping."

"Oh, wedding clothes! I hadn't thought of that. I suppose it does not signify much _when_ we get married, for we are determined that it shall happen sooner or later. But where shall we stay in London?"

"An acquaintance of mine runs a boarding house. If she does not have room, she will know somewhere nearby where we can lodge cheaply. It will be nice to have a bed, my dear, for your education has only just begun."

That sent a frisson of excitement through her, and somewhat of that pleasurable tension she had felt when Wickham kissed her, when he had suckled her breast, and when he had thrust himself inside her, returned. Yes, a room with a bed sounded just the thing. It would give her a chance to unwrap her Wicky, too.

A small tendril of thought nagged its way into her consciousness, interrupting her musings on the pleasures that awaited her in London: "Did you say winnings? You are not a gambler, are you?"

"Not at all. I _never_ gamble. Gambling is a vice. It was only a wager between gentlemen, which is a different thing altogether. Surely you know that gentlemen occasionally indulge in a harmless wager or two?"

Lydia knew no such thing. Her own father had never mentioned gentlemanly wagers, and his rather staid circle of neighbours had been equally silent on the subject. But not wanting to appear ignorant to her dashing lover, she pretended to understand the distinction, smiling in relief that Wicky eschewed the vice of gambling.

Thus reassured, she turned her thoughts to what she might order for her wedding clothes, as the carriage slowly made its way through the narrow lanes of London.

She bristled when Wickham's acquaintance, a Mrs Younge, treated her betrothed as though the woman had a prior claim on his affections. Why, Mrs Younge was thirty if she was a day. As if her Wicky would be interested in a dry old prune like that! (This was more true than Lydia could have known, as his preference lay towards the very young, and Mrs Young was far too old for his taste.) Lydia took his arm possessively and leaned her body close against his: let the old hag see where his heart truly lay. Wickham was perhaps a little too solicitous towards Mrs Younge, but Lydia supposed that was just his affable, gentlemanly manner. To ensure the baggage did not get any ideas, she took care to mention their forthcoming wedding. To her amazement, Mrs Younge had the effrontery to turn a look of pitying disbelief on her. Lydia, as a gentleman's daughter and an engaged woman, was above any boarding-house manager, and turned haughtily away. It was not quite a cut, but she clearly indicated that she _would_ cut the woman's acquaintance if such impertinence continued. Lydia was pleased to learn that there was no vacancy in that lady's boarding house, so that she and Wicky must needs repair to nearby inn.

The inn was hardly of the standard she expected, but at this point she was tired of travelling and happy to take any room that was offered. Wickham assured her it was only for a few days, and suggested that although the common rooms in this facility were too rough for her, she would be safe enough if she kept to their private room. Besides, he added, with a wolfish leer, he did not think she would have much cause to venture beyond the bed, let alone beyond the room! He paid off the coachman and directed a servant to take their things to their room, before offering her his arm and walking her in to the establishment with all the elegance of manner that he would have shown walking her into a palace. He was such a wonderful, loving man!

She was indeed much occupied in their bed over the coming days. Mr Wickham sought his pleasure at least once a day, and taught her many ways of pleasing him. She was finally able to undress her lover, and to touch him all over. She even overcame her initial uncertainty and learned to touch that part of him that he put inside her (He called it his sword, but that just reminded her of the cutting pain she had felt the first time he had entered her. She preferred to think of it as her Wicky's dicky.) One of the more surprising lessons was to discover the pleasure she could give him if she were to stroke, kiss or lick that part of him, or even the grizzly little sacks that hung below it. Caught unawares, she was once too slow to avoid a mouth full of hot, sticky muck. That was a mistake she did not make twice!

Generally, though, she enjoyed his attentions immensely. Joining with him consistently brought her a degree of arousal that put her previous imaginings into the shade, and she wanted to try again and again in an attempt to reach even greater heights. One day when he had gone out in search of the gentleman who owed him money, she ordered a hot bath – damn the expense, she deserved to be properly clean, and how pleased her Wicky would be to find her smelling fresh. Soaking in the warm water, she traced her hand across the places where Wickham's caresses brought her most pleasure, remembering the way he would touch her breasts and pull her thighs apart. Lydia used her fingers to explore just where Wicky's dicky went when it entered her. Pulling them out in a stroking motion, she felt a jolt of arousal, and eagerly felt again for the spot that had provided such a sensation. Before long, Lydia had brought herself to completion, relieving the accumulated tension of multiple couplings, and learning something of why dear Wicky screwed his face up so when he reached his own completion.

Thereafter, she became a little more demanding in their practicing for wedlock, ensuring that, whether with hand or tongue, Wickham paid sufficient attention to her site of pleasure that she could join him in pulling faces. Wickham was surprised by her newfound enthusiasm, but was not averse to enjoying the benefits of her orgasms from within the confines of her tight body. His attentions became less perfunctory and more a matter of mutual anticipation, much to Lydia's increased delight.

One week dragged into two, and Wickham's friend had not yet returned to town. Lydia occasionally suggested that they head to Scotland anyway, even going so far as to say she could do without wedding clothes, for surely she could buy them later when the debt was paid, or ask her uncle Gardiner for a loan. Wickham reminded her that they had run away without her father's permission, so that approaching her uncle before they were actually married might not be such a good idea.

Lydia had made sure to broach the subject while Wickham was inside her, so his response, although disappointing, was couched in affectionate terms, rather than in the tone of brusque dismissal he was more likely to use at other times. She realised that the delay was wearing on him: surely he was as anxious as she to formalise their marriage and the long wait for his friend was making him grumpy. So she spent as much time as she could tempting him to their bed. Practicing for marriage was, after all, an excellent diversion.

She was in their bed, wearing only her dressing gown with nothing beneath it, idly fingering her nether parts in an attempt to garner her Wicky's attention, while he slouched half-dressed on a chair near the table, indulging in a glass of wine and eyeing her in anticipation, when there was a brisk knock at the door. She pulled her dressing gown loosely across herself while her lover rose to answer the knock. She could not at first see who their visitor was – perhaps it was the debtor they had been waiting for – but Wickham stepped back sharply from the doorway and who should it be but that boring friend of Mr Bingley (the one who had cheated her Wicky of his inheritance), Mr Stuffed Shirt, of Pemberley in Derbyshire.

"Mr Darcy," she cried in amazement, "what are _you_ doing here?"

© 2018 elag


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